


My So-Called Afterlife

by Yahtzee



Category: Alias
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The details are still vague.  I get the sense that Sydney isn't telling me everything, and that quite possibly I don't want to know everything.</p><p>Short version: I'm dead.  Really most sincerely dead.  There was an autopsy, and a funeral, and there's a grave with my name on the headstone and my body in it.   I cannot tell you how freaky that is.  At first I was very upset – how could you not be? I mean, oh, my God, my poor parents. Also, I would like to think that I'd have some memory of heaven, maybe just a nice sense of light and love and truth or something like that, but I have to tell you that I don't remember a thing.</p><p>However, I am also not dead.</p><p>Confused yet?  That makes two of us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My So-Called Afterlife

So, I woke up in this tub of syrup.

Seriously, syrup, that's the only word for it. Kinda like maple syrup, except about eighty thousand times nastier. I sat up and gasped for air, because I was about to drown in the stuff, and I tried to wipe it off my face and out of my hair, but my hands were coated with it also. Basically, I was lying in a tank of syrup, located God knows where, and my first thought was, Something has gone seriously wrong at the day spa, and I fell asleep right in the middle of it.

And then there was this guy there, just staring at me like I was Jesus and Britney and a plate of spaghetti all rolled into one, and he kept saying, My God, it worked, I can't believe it. First I wanted to ask him how the hell me being coated in syrup could be the desired result of any process whatsoever, and then I wanted to ask him who he was, and then I noticed that I was stark naked and we were alone, which is when it actually got scary.

Who are you? I asked him, and he said, You don't remember, but it will come back to you. I said, My clothes better come back to me right now or I'm calling the cops.

I don't know what I was planning on calling the cops with, because my cell phone was missing along with everything else, but he pointed toward one corner of the medical-looking room we were in. There was a shower nozzle, like you were supposed to hose off right in the center of the place, and some clothing folded a short distance away. Get your bearings, he said. I'll be back. Then he wandered off muttering, The Belarus Process works, whatever that means.

As soon as he left, I looked around for a phone, but no luck. I was pretty sure waking up naked and alone with a stranger probably meant I had bigger problems than this syrup situation, but the syrup situation was the only one I could take care of. So I showered and put on the clothes – which fit, actually, and were kinda cute, not that it matters. I attempted to pat down my hair, which was already going to the scary place; there weren't any styling products to go with the clothes, so I resigned myself to having the world's most heinous Afro in about ten minutes. I also tried remembering exactly how I ended up here.

The day spa was the place I was most likely to get dunked in or lathered with substances I couldn't identify, but I didn't remember going to the day spa. My last trip had been almost a month ago. I was supposed to go with Syd, but she canceled – the bank, again – and I had to make the trip on my own. Just as well, really, because that visit went seriously wrong; they sprayed this red stuff on me for a "mineral shower," but it smelled like chemicals and gave me a headache. No way are you charging me extra for that, I told them, so they threw in a pedicure for free.

No, I hadn't been at the day spa before I – passed out, or fell asleep, or –

Then I remembered where I'd been. At the restaurant. In the kitchen. I'd hung up the phone and turned around and seen a woman who looked just like me –

\-- she had a gun –

Oh, shit, I said out loud, because as far as I could figure I was supposed to be dead.

The guy walked back in and asked me, Are you feeling better, Allison? I said, Allison? And he went, You still don't remember, darling, but you will. I've missed you, you know.

Now, I barely had time to notice what with all the creepiness going on, but this guy was actually pretty hot: blond hair, blue eyes, English accent. Nice. For about half a second, I kind of liked having him talk to me that way, and I wondered if I had maybe started an affair with some dashing exotic foreign man, then gotten amnesia about the whole thing. Is that a Lana Turner kind of situation or what? But then I realized that didn't explain the syrup.

Who is Allison? I asked, and that's when he started looking at me strangely. Don't you remember who you are? he said, and I said, Yeah, I remember just fine. My name is Francie Calfo.

Well, he staggers back like I had slapped him in the face. Francie, he says, and even though he was basically just in shock, it creeped me out because he obviously knew who I was. I am sure we never met. Positive. Who are you? I demanded.

He didn't answer me. Instead he sort of slumped against the wall and said, The sample in the file, it wasn't her, it was who they wanted her to become.

Whatever that means.

OK, am I remembering wrong, or did someone try to shoot me? I asked, and he just covered his face with his hands. This guy had good taste in clothes, but when it came to giving straight answers, he was pretty much useless. So I said, I'm leaving now, buh-bye.

I ought to kill you, he said. He didn't say it the way any normal person would say it, like if they were mad and blowing off steam or something. He said it like anybody else would say they should turn off the lights when they leave. I got worse than scared, and I started glancing around the room for anything I could hit him with.

But then he started to laugh – a weak kind of laugh, almost like he wanted to cry, and I wondered again who Allison was, besides somebody he had been looking for. Go, go, he said. When Sydney asks, tell her Julian Sark is responsible. And remind her that I'll call in the favor someday.

A couple interesting factoids there.

One, his name was Julian Sark. Possibly useful.

Two, this Julian person knew my roommate. I never heard Sydney mention a Julian, but I figured maybe I was blanking out on it.

Three, and this is kind of the critical one, I could leave.

I ran for the door before Julian could change his mind and do whatever evil lethal things he'd been considering, much less dunk me in the syrup again. All he said as I left was, Dear God, I need a drink.

The door I went through led to a corridor, which led to another door, which led to another corridor, until I started feeling like Spinal Tap backstage in Cleveland. But finally I went through a door that led outside, where it was nighttime, cool and crisp –

\-- and where Big Ben was looming in the distance.

London? London. Or maybe Las Vegas, if they had a simulation of that in Vegas. I couldn't remember. All I knew was, I was in way deeper trouble than I thought.

**

At first, at the police station, they were very polite and even a little bit condescending: Yes, yes, we'll fetch a doctor, you sit down here. They gave me tea. Obviously the Brits thought I was a tourist who had gotten drunk or taken drugs and needed to sober up, but I couldn't really blame them. The maple syrup explanation? Not the world's most convincing.

They had a newspaper in the holding room, and I flipped through it, wondering when exactly we started bombing Iraq. And then I saw the date on the top.

2007

2007? Are you SERIOUS?

I started to panic, but then I decided that, no, really, it all made sense. It was 2007. I took a trip to England in 2007, and I hit my head or something, and it inspired temporary amnesia. Any second now, the memories would come flooding back. The last five years would all click in, just like that,

I say "I decided" like I calmly came to this conclusion, a-ha, yes, that's quite reasonable. It wasn't like that at all. My stomach was churning, and I thought I might hyperventilate, and for the first time ever, I understood what people meant when they said "flop sweat." All the same, I had an idea of what had happened to me, and it made sense (except for the syrup factor), so I wasn't completely losing my shit.

Then four men came in, wearing suits and sunglasses – indoors, even – and acting a lot more serious. You'll come with us, the tallest one said, and when I asked where I was going, he just said, The names in your report triggered a security code.

And when I asked him what that meant, was he any help whatsoever? No.

At that point, I would not have been surprised if they'd thrown me in a dungeon or something. (What? They have those over there.) Instead they took me to a fairly nice little house, with a bedroom for me and homey furniture and everything. It wasn't a hotel, though, first of all because I was the only guest, and second because bellhops don't carry guns. I asked if I could use the phone. They said no. That kinda ended the conversational portion of my stay.

I wondered if maybe I'd done something bad, and that was why I had amnesia. Had I killed somebody? I couldn't imagine doing that, but I'd forgotten five whole years. Who knows what I might've done? There were times I imagined killing Charlie – not for serious, just to make myself feel better and sort of wondering, Could I get away with it? (And if you're sitting there thinking that's freaky, tell me honestly that you've never asked yourself the same question. Right. I thought so.) Maybe I'd become some kind of crazy female serial killer, hunting down cheating boyfriends. A psychopathic vigilante, like that Fatal Attraction woman taking it large-scale.

OK, I always figured it wasn't likely. But I had a whole day to kill in that house, and while I was there, I guessed just about every possible thing on earth, except of course the truth.

The only time I fell apart was right before I went to sleep. I noticed that I wasn't wearing a wedding ring, and I figured that meant I was still single or divorced. That wasn't what upset me – after Charlie, I was in no big hurry to go bridal again – but it did kind of make me think about Will.

As far as I remembered, I'd kissed Will Tippin for the very first time two days ago. Just remembering it made me go warm all over. It turns out that Will can seriously kiss. Also, he's so kind, and he always makes time for me, and we laugh at all of each other's jokes – I mean, all the good stuff. All the things that I never saw, until the moment I couldn't believe I hadn't seen them all along. Yeah, he went through the drug thing, but you know what? A lot of people do. And at least Will was fighting hard to get his life back on the right path again. To me that shows courage, and strength.

You will have noticed that I had it for Will bad.

And even though it is a totally stupid, self-sabotaging thing to think at that stage of the game, after that first night of making out and laughing and snuggling for hours – well, I asked myself, Is Will the one? As in, THE one, the guy I might want to be with my whole life long. No, I didn't expect him to propose on our third date or anything, but personally, I think when two close friends hook up after years of hanging out, you do actually have to ask yourself that question pretty early on.

The absence of a ring on my finger told me the answer. So on top of being amnesiac, stranded in a foreign country, still not having a clue what the vat of syrup was about and being held prisoner in a mysteriously empty B&amp;B – my heart was broken, a little bit.

I admit it: I cried myself to sleep.

I woke up with a start, and at first I didn't know where I was. Then I thought, Oh, I remember, and it was like this weight lifting from me; I could remember back to yesterday, so now I'd be able to remember the rest, right? Instead, my memories ran back to Julian Sark and then stopped.

Only after I'd figured all that out did I realize that somebody was standing in my bedroom doorway.

Syd? I said.

She just stared at me. If I hadn't already resigned myself to the fact that it was really 2007, I would've at that moment, because Sydney was definitely older. It wasn't that she looked haggard or anything – she looked great, as a matter of fact – but she'd changed a lot. Her hair was longer than it had been since we were freshmen in college, and she'd gained a little bit of weight, and her breasts were, like, three cup sizes larger. (I know it sounds crazy than I noticed that, but seriously, you could not NOT notice these breasts. Especially not if you had to listen to Syd whine about being a B-cup all through high school.)

Who are you? Sydney said, and I was all, Dammit, does everyone have amnesia? She said, seriously harsh, Cut the crap. I know you're a double.

A double what?

She goes, Stop it. I'm going to check this out right now. Then Sydney pulls a GUN on me, and I was like, What the fuck, Syd? And she says, Don't say my name. Just sit still.

I sat still. Yeah, she's my oldest friend on the planet, but things were obviously screwed up to levels I had never even dreamed of, and she looked like she knew how to hold a gun. I wondered if they taught them that at the bank, like, in case of robberies or something.

Syd kept the gun in one hand while she shone this mini-flashlight in my eye, and I kinda said Ow because it was really bright, but she acted like she couldn't hear me. Then she frowned and said, It's not there.

What exactly would you expect to find in my eye? I asked, but she ignored me, doing this thing where she talks to herself. This is always a sign that she's still really angry. Syd kept saying, It's a new doubling process, we have to stop them.

This clicked for me, right? At last I had some idea what was going on – okay, NO idea what was going on, but more idea than Syd. It's the Belarus Process, I said. This guy Julian Sark called it that. Now, can you tell me what you mean by doubling?

Sydney gave me a look. Sark?

Yeah –

Belarus?

Yeah –

You admit you're a double?

I'm not admitting shit until you tell me what has gotten into you! I yelled. You can tell that by then I was fresh out of patience. I said, Spill it, Syd, NOW, or I buy a billboard in LA and paint in four-foot-high letters the fact that you lost your virginity to Mickey Kipp in his Trans Am when you were 17.

Syd's eyes got really big, and I couldn't blame her. I did sort of swear never to mention Mickey Kipp ever again. (That was this totally destructive teenage affair, a complete nightmare, and it marks the only time her father and I ever agreed on anything, namely, that Mickey was pond scum. Fortunately, the relationship blew over when Mickey's dad – army guy – got transferred to Guam all of a sudden. Who gets transferred to Guam? Mr. Kipp must have pissed off somebody in the U.S. government, like, big time.)

How did you know that? Syd demanded, and I reminded her that she told me all about it and tried to make it sound romantic, which it did not. Hello, stick shift, beer cans and Megadeth on the speakers? As first times go, severely deficient.

After I went over all this, Sydney said, Tell me something else. Something only Francie knows.

Then I finally started to put it together. That girl I'd seen in the kitchen, the scary one with the gun who was rather rudely wearing my face? Doubling process? Somebody made a person look just like me – Allison, I'm guessing, and I'd bet this guy Julian Sark came into it too – and that person had fooled them or something. That was why she was so suspicious.

Why would anybody make a double of me? I mean, what, they were desperate to run a marginally profitable restaurant? Would it not be easier to open a Red Lobster franchise? But I'm getting off the subject.

So I told Sydney about the first time I ever got drunk and how I called her to come pick me up from that party, then about the time we took off our engagement rings together and cried, and even about the time I explained to her that owning a vibrator is not a possibility, it is a necessity, and then we went out and comparison-shopped. These stories should have made her laugh or nod or at least blush, but instead she just stared at me, and stared, and stared.

Finally, she goes, What was my favorite song in junior high?

I don't know.

She pressed her lips together, which is a bad sign in Sydneyworld, and said, Francie would know that.

Why would I know that? I said. I was getting fed up again. I'm not your jukebox, Syd! And you always had the most crap taste in music of anybody ever. Probably it was something absolutely godawful by, like, Phil Collins, and I blanked it out to protect my memory from the trauma. Probably that's why I'm here in London, forgetting years of my life. Somebody played your crappy favorite song and it triggered a flashback that broke my brain!

Francie! Syd cried, and then she hugged me so tightly I couldn't breathe. She started sobbing, and I did too even though I didn't really know why. It just felt so good to have somebody know me again.

When we were both cried out and dried off, I finally asked her what had happened, why I didn't remember all that time, and who that girl who looked like me had been. And that's when Sydney said the words that basically snapped my world in two:

Francie, you were dead.

**

The details are still vague. I get the sense that Sydney isn't telling me everything, and that quite possibly I don't want to know everything.

Short version: I'm dead. Really most sincerely dead. There was an autopsy, and a funeral, and there's a grave with my name on the headstone and my body in it. I cannot tell you how freaky that is. At first I was very upset – how could you not be? I mean, oh, my God, my poor parents. Also, I would like to think that I'd have some memory of heaven, maybe just a nice sense of light and love and truth or something like that, but I have to tell you that I don't remember a thing.

However, I am also not dead.

Confused yet? That makes two of us. Whatever this Julian Sark guy did, the "Belarus Process" or whatever you want to call it, that brought me back. It's my body and my memories up until the moment that I – well, let's say until things were rudely interrupted. They did every kind of fingerprint and DNA test imaginable on me, and it all checks out. I am me. Okay.

Apparently there is some kind of government organization mixed up in all this. I gave up asking which organization after a while, because nobody would answer me; I just hope it's our government. Sydney seems to be involved too, and I'm thinking they told her a lot of stuff after the whole Allison incident, stuff she can't share with me now. All that matters to me is that they gave me some money to start over with, and all I had to do for it was to agree not to tell anybody I'm back until they give me the go-ahead. Don't get me wrong; I'm frantic to call my parents. But I do sort of need something to tell them, and the government guys are more likely to come up with a convincing explanation than I am, because I've been trying, and it's so not happening.

Besides, I've had several lost years of information to get used to. First of all – George Bush AGAIN, are you people fucking kidding me? I turn my back for a few lousy years and you re-elect that jerk. Okay, if I talk any more about that, I'll get grumpy. Let's concentrate on the good stuff.

Sydney? Is married! And she married Michael, the guy at the bank that she had that huge crush on for, like, forever. They even have a little girl! Her name is Isabelle, and she's not even a year old yet, and she is absolutely the most precious thing imaginable. Michael seems like a really nice guy, too; we're hanging out some, becoming friends.

Will? Also married. That took me a while to get used to, but apparently after my death, he mourned for a couple of years. Kind of flattering, huh? Get this: Will needed a fresh start so badly that he moved to the Midwest. That is what I call desperation. Once the government gives us the all-clear, Syd and I are going to phone him, too.

I've accepted that my untimely demise ended whatever Will and I might have had, but – I'd like to see him. To know that he's happy. That's enough, for me; it kinda has to be.

Despite the gorgeous husband and beautiful baby, Syd has apparently had a really rough time of it since I've been gone. Her father died not that long ago, which hit her much harder than I would've thought. Apparently they got a lot closer the past few years, and Sydney always says things like I Never Understood Him Until It Was Too Late. What was there not to understand about Jack Bristow? He was just a walking bundle of boring information, a catalog of airplane parts come to life. I wouldn't say that to Sydney anymore, though; she gets all misty whenever she brings him up. He seems to have made up for lost time, particularly playing grandpa to Isabelle. I might not miss the guy myself, but I feel bad for Syd, who misses him terribly. After all the years he wasn't there for her, it's a shame that he died right after he'd finally learned how to be a father.

Also, it turns out she had a younger sister. No, really! Sydney gets really vague when I ask her how she happened to not notice, like, a baby around the house when she was a little kid. My personal guess: Mr. Bristow had a fling after his wife died, fathered an illegitimate daughter and either didn't know about it or didn't tell Sydney. The sister's name was Nadia. I've seen her picture, and just something about her smile tells me we would've liked each other. But she's dead too.

All this makes it that much harder to understand why Sydney and I never had this really critical conversation before tonight.

See, I went over to her house for a cookout. Michael was barbecuing, and a bunch of their friends came by to visit. There's this gorgeous supermodel-type girl named Rachel who somehow manages to be both really smart and enjoyably goofy despite the theoretically annoying supermodel factor. Also Marcus Dixon, from the bank, who I remember from our Halloween party. Very nice guy, also quite handsome. He was widowed a few years back – and don't get me wrong, I know that's tragic and everything, but it also means that he is now a sane, single man with a sense of humor and seriously amazing shoulders. Hmmm, I say, but that's something to think about for the future. A man named Eric was visiting from Washington, and he seems to have been a college roommate of Michael's, somebody who can give me the dirt once I pour a few cocktails into him. Finally, Isabelle had a little boy named Mitchell to play with, because his parents, Marshall and Carrie, brought him along. Those two bicker a lot, but it's hysterical.

Everything was good and fun and silly, which is why it surprised me so much to go back into Sydney's room – the barbecue had created the dire need for dental floss – and find her sitting on the bed, crying.

I just went and put my arms around her. She kept saying, I want them here. I want them here with me to enjoy this.

All I could do was tell her that I was sorry and hug her tight. I remembered when she used to cry like this about Danny, then wondered if he was one of the ones she was crying about.

You're the only one, Syd sobbed. The only one I ever got back.

That's when it hit me.

Well, it doesn't have to be that way, I said. She gave me this are-you-deranged stare, but I kept going. The Belarus Process. Why not use it for your dad? And your sister?

I can't do that, she said.

I thought about that for a little bit, then said, Why not? Syd got this look on her face, like Bwuh? So I kept going. I don't see why you shouldn't use it. Seriously, what is the problem? Find that Julian Sark guy. Get it from him. Then you can bring everyone back.

She was all, But, but, but that's not right! What if everyone brought back whoever they wanted? What if someone brought back Hitler?

I am not talking about everyone, I pointed out. I am talking about us, and we are so not bringing back Hitler. There is not enough tequila in the world to get us that drunk.

Then she went all still, thinking about it. I could see that first little flicker of hope in her eyes.

So I squeezed her hand and said, We'll get your dad back. And Nadia. God, Sydney, we could even bring back your mom.

Maybe, she said, and by then she was smiling. Maybe we can.

So, as of tonight, she and Michael and all the others are searching for Julian Sark. When they find him, somehow they're going to get this Belarus Process from him. After that, Jack Bristow gets to be alive again, and hopefully Laura Bristow, and Nadia Whatever Her Last Name Was. I haven't asked about Danny yet – with Michael, I guess that's sort of a sensitive subject – but I figure we'll bring him back also. Even if Danny doesn't end up with Sydney, he deserves to get to finish his life.

Why stop there? I say we give Princess Diana another shot while we're at it. Maybe Freddie Mercury, too.

Fuck death, is what I'm saying. You really can't let a little thing like mortality get in the way. That's basically my motto from now on, and if Syd tries it, I think she's going to have a whole lot more fun.

I'd say I got back just in the nick of time.

 

END


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